


He Moves Through The Fair

by kinodream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Geralt is like 'me and this extremely sexy ghost are gonna go fuck, Ghost Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Threats of dismemberment, and his swords are indeed extremely large, and if anyone tries to stop us then I will use my large swords against them', however these threats are not carried through because Geralt is very convincing, now with 50 percent fewer commas !, to which all parties enthusiastically consent before all that much drinking has occurred, written in the spirit of Fluff and Crack but it's not entirely either of those in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26944363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinodream/pseuds/kinodream
Summary: “Well,” said Jaskier, and he bit his lip in contemplation, which was very distracting, so Geralt picked up his long-forgotten ale to take a large, steadying gulp. “Before I drowned, I was very well-trained as a bard, and I was exceptionally skilled at fingering.”Geralt coughed as the ale went down wrong.“Were you,” he said, a little breathlessly.Jaskier gave him a wide, earnest grin. “With the lute, yes!”Geralt was not disappointed by this clarification at all.“And in other endeavors as well,” said Jaskier, and his grin showed a few extra teeth. He gave an exaggerated, saucy wink, possibly for emphasis.“That’s very nice,” said Geralt, who was mostly certain that Jaskier was talking about sex, now, but not completely.Alternately titled, “Geralt is maybe a little bit dumb, but it's okay because Jaskier is really, really nice, and really, really pretty.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 121





	He Moves Through The Fair

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to writing a happier fic!
> 
> So, originally I wanted to write something very closely resembling the folk song of a similar name (“She Moves Through The Fair”), but then I had a hard time actually applying it to Geralt and Jaskier. But ! I still wanted to write something that had the same vibes, so. Here you go :) it’s only tangentially related to the song, really, but it’s no matter.
> 
> If you have an interest in listening to the song anyway, though, Fairport Convention does a super good version of it. Highly recommend.

It wasn’t often that Geralt was allowed to stay in villages on their holy days, but, as the ealdorman had explained it, the dead were buried by the riverbank and on bad years the drowners would come up in packs. On good years they’d only prowl, solitary, waiting for someone to wander off from the celebration so they could gut them in their cruel, drowner-y way.

“A Witcher would be a great help for _Dziady_ ,” he said. “The spirits won’t mind.”

Geralt wasn’t convinced. Spirits _usually_ seemed to mind. “You’re sure of that?”

“Sure enough,” said the ealdorman.

“And the villagers? They won’t mind?”

At this, the ealdorman shrugged. “Told the folk it was you or the drowners, and most of ‘em said they’d rather have you.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“And we’re paying, of course! Got 3 orens from each head of house, and there’s to be food and drink, and then the inn will keep you a fortnight before you need to move on.”

That, at least, was a good deal. Winter had come early this year, long before Geralt had been ready for it, and so he’d still been in Temeria, walking the Path and expecting another month before it got truly cold. But it was cold now, and Temerian winters were harsher than most. A few nights at the inn—plus a little coin—would be a welcome reprieve from current toil of the Path.

“My horse will need stabling as well,” said Geralt. “Feed, too.”

“Aye, I’ll tell the innkeep. No trouble, no trouble at all.”

“Fine,” said Geralt, and he pocketed the little pouch of coin that the ealdorman tossed him.

“Can’t thank you enough, Witcher. Folk _need_ festivals and the like, in the winter. This winter more than most, with the war and all.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. The ealdorman pushed open the door of his hut and ushered him outside. Geralt untied Roach’s picket and began to lead her behind him down the narrow path beaten into the frozen mud of the hillside, back towards the village. 

“Though I should say,” said the ealdorman, stopping to lean on his walking stick, suddenly looking rather twitchy, “Even though we’ve all decided a Witcher is a good thing to have today, it’d all go smoother if you don’t mingle _too_ much.”

“How’s that,” said Geralt, raising one eyebrow.

“Well, the forefathers are real material in Toderas, and some folks might not take so kindly to you, y’know, defiling them.”

“Defiling,” said Geralt slowly, sounding it out.

“Yes. And so it’d be best to just steer clear of all of them spirits, and the pretty lasses as well, the womenfolk, too, I should think. Just keep your distance, and that would be for the best.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. This didn’t sound as good of a job as it had a few minutes ago, now. Not that he was planning on “defiling” anyone, whatever that meant, but the ealdorman’s speech hadn’t sounded very welcoming.

The ealdorman nodded, seemingly satisfied, and started walking again toward the thin smoke rising above the old thatch roofs and painted houses. 

It was small, like most villages were this far north in Temeria, and nearly empty save for an older woman and a young man only just in his twenties by the looks of him, both carrying cloth-covered baskets toward the hill. The ealdorman waved to them and called across the muddy road.

“Aniela! Witcher’ll take the job, but his horse needs stabling before he'll go out the river.”

The old woman sighed and turned to the man beside her. “Julian, take him back to stables, see to his horse? No—leave the basket! Ealdorman’ll take it, won’t you, Kacper? Can’t carry them both, can I?” The ealdorman took the basket, somewhat grudgingly, and followed her back toward the hill they’d come down from.

Geralt’s medallion began to hum slightly, probably because the veil had just lifted. Geralt resigned himself to feeling it buzz against his armor for the rest of the night.

“Come with me, then,” said the man. Geralt did so for all of ten feet, before the man turned back round to face him.

“Lucky you were passing through,” said the man, brightly. He had an old lute strung across his back, the tuning pegs just poking up behind his blouse, and he was smiling, blushing slightly, probably from the chill. “Kacper was going on and on about how the entrails were saying the riverbank would be overrun with drowners, and Lech—he thinks he’s in charge since his da died, but honestly, his da wasn’t in charge either—was trying to tell folk we should all just stay in our homes and keep a candle on the hearth for the spirits, as if that would please anyone!” Here, he shook his head, and then laughed. “Everyone was all just gonna go down to the river no matter what, drowners or no, but probably then they’d have died.”

“The villagers might die all the same, if we take too long getting there,” said Geralt, pointedly.

“Oh, right, of course.”

There were a few moments of near silence, torn by the occasional gale of wind, as they walked.

“Very nice horse,” the man burst out, as though he couldn’t stand another moment without talking.

Geralt sighed. “Her name is Roach. She’s the best horse.”

The man turned to beam at him, all teeth and dimples. “I’m sure that’s true,” he said. “ _My_ name is Jaskier, by the way.”

“Thought the innkeeper called you Julian?”

“Well, she did. I have a lot of names. To you, I’m Jaskier.”

Geralt considered this for a few steps, before nodding.

“And you? I’m sure your name’s not Witcher, right? Your kind have proper names and all.”

“We do,” said Geralt. “Mine is Geralt.”

“Lovely name,” said Jaskier.

Geralt snorted. It wasn’t.

The inn was as lovingly run-down as the rest of the village, though it was bigger than the other buildings, and the stables looked adequate, if nothing else. Geralt let Roach into the closest stall, took off her bridle and tack, hefted the saddlebags, and gave her a quick rub down while she investigated the water trough. Eventually, Geralt picked the saddlebags back up and turned toward Jaskier, who was staring at his arms with a strange expression.

“My room,” said Geralt, lifting the bags higher. “So I can put this down.”

“Oh, right. Yes, this way. I’d offer to carry that for you, but you, uh, you look like you’ve got it handled.” His face was very pink. Geralt moved slightly away, in case the man was feverish and about to vomit. It was hard to tell, sometimes, with humans.

“You wouldn’t be able to carry it anyway,” Geralt told him.

“I’m sure that’s true. After all, I’m but a man, and you are… well...” He motioned widely to Geralt. 

“Yes,” said Geralt, agreeably. He waited for Jaskier to start walking again, but Jaskier stayed where he was, and sort of flapped a hand about, nervously.

“So, there’s a lot of folk in town right now, for the feast, to visit graves and whatnot. Folk who moved away, I mean. And they don’t have houses here anymore, leastwise, not houses that have room, so they’re all staying at the inn.”

“Alright,” said Geralt, wondering what this had to do with him and his room and his saddlebags.

“So the inn’s full up, basically. So, the only room without an entire family in it already would be mine.”

“Oh,” said Geralt, a little sadly. “I can stay in the stables, then.” The free room was most of the reason he’d accepted this job to begin with, but he’d take a warm stable happier than he’d take the outdoors. At least that way he could see to it that Roach was being treated right.

But Jaskier shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant! I don’t mind company, I don’t… well, I’m often alone, to tell the truth. But I just thought I should warn you.”

“Oh,” said Geralt. “Alright, then.”

Jaskier smiled at him again, for so long this time that Geralt began to think he should try to smile back, if only in the interest of keeping his new roommate happy, and not screaming abuse or throwing rocks. But then Jaskier turned away, so Geralt didn’t. But he wished, a little, that he had.

The room Jaskier brought him to clearly wasn’t a normal room for an inn. Nor, Geralt would guess, did it look like the room the innkeeper slept in. It was small, but well-lit by several candles that were set on a little stone shrine along with many small, carved figurines.

But there was a cot made up in the corner, so it was—by the very loosest of definitions—a bedroom, Geralt supposed. It was more like an informal temple, only it was also, apparently, where Jaskier slept. Well, that was fine.

Jaskier was staring at him a little nervously, as though waiting for his reaction.

“Thank you for sharing it,” said Geralt, politely. Jaskier smiled and motioned to the only remaining corner in the room not taken up by the cot, the doorway, or the shrine.

“You can set your things down here, and then we’ll go,” he said.

“Alright,” said Geralt. He placed the saddlebags on the stone floor very gently, not wanting to upset the figurines (or, maybe, Jaskier) with a loud sound, and then knelt next to them to remove a few decoctions.

Jaskier moved beside him and peered into the bottles. “What’re those for?”

“If the drowners do come out, I’ll have to fight them. Thunderbolt, for strength. White Raffard’s Decoction, for injuries. And drowner pheromones. In case I get overwhelmed.” Geralt carefully rolled them into a spare pair of socks and tucked them into a pocket.

“That’s very interesting,” said Jaskier. He was smiling again. Geralt wasn’t sure if this sudden uptick in smiling villagers was unnerving, or nice. 

Nice, he supposed. Since it was only the one smiling villager. And he seemed harmless, really, and kind, for a human, and he had a very good smile anyways, not that Geralt was a good judge of that sort of thing.

“Thank you,” said Geralt, a little stiffly. He stood up, checked his sheath straps to make sure his swords were secure, and went to stand by the door.

“You must go through a lot of potions,” said Jaskier, standing up very fluidly. Geralt was impressed. The lute looked heavy. But Jaskier hadn’t overbalanced at all.

“I do,” said Geralt. 

“Must spend a lot of coin on them,” said Jaskier.

“No,” said Geralt. “I brew them myself. Find the ingredients on the Path, mostly.”

“Oh, you’re an alchemist, too?” cried Jaskier. “You have many talents.” Jaskier hadn’t moved toward the door. Instead, he was stood in front of the shrine, with the candle-light flickering over his face. It was… fetching? Not to Geralt, obviously. That was human nonsense. But another human, he reasoned, would probably find Jaskier very fetching.

“Thank you,” said Geralt, again. He hoped he sounded less stiff this time.

“I’m sure you have your pick of suitors,” said Jaskier, very earnestly.

Geralt snorted. “I pay for company. And I have a few… friends,” he said. “Suitors, no.”

“Well, that’s crazy,” said Jaskier, crossing his arms. “You should have loads of suitors. You’re very handsome.”

Geralt didn’t blush, because Witchers couldn’t blush, he was fairly certain. Eskel had done something with his face, a few times, when they’d been fucking, but that was more of a flush, really. So if anything, Geralt flushed. He cleared his throat. “The celebration,” he said.

“Oh!” said Jaskier. “Yes, of course. We really should be going. Follow me, then.” He brushed past Geralt, touching perhaps… more of Geralt than was necessary, even in the small room, and led him out of the inn.

***

There were indeed far more villagers than could have fit in the dozen or so houses on the other side of the hill. Several large stones had been piled high with baskets like the kind the innkeeper had carried, and with the cloth pushed aside, Geralt could see they were full of pastries and sweetbreads. A mound of barrels were piled next to the stones from which several men were filling tankards and distributing them amongst the crowd. The air was frigid and the wind raking, but the bonfire near the center of the gathering didn’t seem bothered by it, and nor did the villagers, who had donned thick wool cloaks and hats and were clutching their ales and swaying, pink-cheeked.

It was a strange sight for a _Dziady_ , at least the ones he was used to, but Jaskier looked well at ease as they pushed through the crowd to stand closest to the river, so that Geralt could watch for drowners, and Jaskier could have room to set up his lute. 

They settled against another of the stones, though this one wasn’t bearing food and instead lay empty until Jaskier climbed atop it and settled in. Geralt sat next to him, not too close. They watched the crowd for a moment, and then Jaskier pulled his lute off his back to give it a quick strum. He made an aggrieved noise and began to fiddle with tuning pegs.

“What is it?” said Geralt, more alert than he was a minute ago.

“Oh, it's just the damp, it’s muddled the tuning on my lute again. It’s no bother, I’ll fix it.” He plucked a single string and returned his attentions to the pegs with renewed fervor.

“But you’ll catch cold,” said Geralt. Jaskier was one of the few without cloaks, and most of the others who eschewed them looked to be older, or more solid, or else were nearer to the fire than Jaskier was.

“What?” said Jaskier, absently. “Oh, I’ll be fine. Wind goes right through me, honestly.”

“That’s not a good thing,” said Geralt, beginning to feel either rather cross or rather worried. Possibly both. “I’ll fetch you one. Stay here, please.”

Jaskier finally looked up from his lute to give a broad, all-encompassing smile. “Well, if you insist. Ula has a bundle of them, I think.”

“Right,” said Geralt, and started forward confidently, before turning back around. “And Ula is…”

“Over by the fire,” said Jaskier, taking a hand off the bowl of his lute to push Geralt’s shoulder in the direction of, presumably, Ula. “The lass with the big basket of cloaks. Can’t miss her.”

Geralt certainly could have missed her, but he focused very hard on weaving his way through the villagers, selecting a thick pinkish cloak after a few moments of deliberation, and getting back to Jaskier.

He held it out, but Jaskier appeared to be too busy with his lute (now, possibly, in tune, for he’d stopped with the pegs and was instead plucking out a simple, melodic rhythm). And, well, it was very cold. Jaskier shouldn’t be without a cloak for a moment longer than necessary, probably, because he was very pale and looked underfed, and the clothes he _was_ wearing looked very flimsy. So Geralt pulled the cloak over Jaskier’s shoulders and flipped the hood up, which at last seemed to break Jaskier’s focus.

“Oh, thank you, love,” he said, with another one of those smiles. Geralt… did not blush. But he did swallow very hard, and then sat down next to Jaskier, suddenly feeling the slightest bit unsteady.

“How are you liking the feast?” asked Jaskier, leaning against Geralt a little. Geralt decided this probably meant that Jaskier was still cold, so he leant against Jaskier, too.

“There are lots of lasses,” said Geralt. 

“Well… yes,” said Jaskier, who sounded a little glum, all of a sudden.

“The ealdorman said I shouldn’t talk to them,” said Geralt.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Or the other womenfolk.” He paused, thinking. “Or the spirits, but I don’t see very many spirits yet.” There were a few obvious ones wearing ornate funeral clothes, or bearing injuries that looked fresh but didn’t bleed. But mostly, the crowd looked human.

Jaskier gave him a very strange look. “Why aren’t you to talk to the spirits?” he said, voice low and brow furrowed.

Geralt didn’t like that—Jaskier shouldn’t be worried about things. “I’m going to get you some ale,” Geralt announced. “Ale for both of us. And food. Stay here again, please.” And he stood up, pat Jaskier very gently on the shoulder, and eyed the barrels of ale.

***

Geralt had drank quite a lot by the time Jaskier began to play in earnest. It seemed to have been what many of the villagefolk were waiting for—once he stood and moved close to the fire with lute in hand, the conversation spoken loudly to hear each other over the river and the wind immediately hushed. Geralt leant forward. He didn’t know much about music, but Jaskier would be very good, he was certain. 

_My young love said to me_

_"My mother won't mind_

_And my father won't slight you_

_For your lack of kine"_

_And he laid his hand on me_

_And this he did say_

_"Oh, it will not be long, love_

_Till our wedding day"_

_And he went away from me_

_And moved through the fair_

_And fondly I watched him_

_Move here and move there_

_And then he went homeward_

_Just one star awake_

_Like the swan in the evening_

_Moves over the lake_

_Last night he came to me_

_My dead love came in_

_So softly he came_

_That him feet made no din_

_And he laid his hand on me_

_And this he did say_

_"Oh, it will not be long, love_

_Till our wedding day"_

Geralt expected applause—it had been good, he’d thought, but the townspeople only nodded, as though it were simply the opening part of a ritual to which they were all well-attuned. And perhaps it was. Geralt had realized, by now, that Toderas didn’t behave on _Dziady_ the way that anywhere else seemed to. Local custom, he supposed. Humans were strange like that.

Jaskier began a new song, this one quicker, more lively. If Geralt had known much about music, he’d have said that Jaskier played oddly—he was clearly both practiced and skilled, but his fingers were clumsy, and often the wrong note sounded, or two notes, discordant, were plucked instead of one. But Geralt didn’t know anything about music, so he pushed the thought aside and watched.

He kept an ear toward the river, listening for drowners, but none ever came.

***

Many hours later, deep into the night, Jaskier finally put his lute down, strung it once more across his back, and stepped away from the fire. His eyes found Geralt almost immediately, and he went to him and sat very close to him, as he’d done earlier. 

“You were very good,” said Geralt, whose tongue had been thoroughly loosened with ale.

Jaskier grinned and flopped against him. Geralt noted, with drunken unease, that he seemed to weigh almost nothing, and even after spending hours by the bonfire, he was still so cold.

“Sweet of you to say that, Geralt,” he was murmuring. “The folk here aren’t the most appreciative audience, but they listen well.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, trying to surreptitiously draw his own cloak over Jaskier.

Jaskier made a face and withdrew.

“Sorry,” said Geralt, frowning, but Jaskier waved him away and fumbled the lute off, placed it beside Geralt, and then began wriggling unceremoniously into Geralt’s lap, until his back was pressed entirely against Geralt’s chest, even though his armor must have been hard and uncomfortable.

“It’s fine,” laughed Jaskier. Geralt must have said that last part out loud. “I don’t mind it, if that’s the cost of this wonderful seat.” He twisted a little, so that he could knock the side of his jaw against Geralt’s shoulder.

“It isn’t,” Geralt blurted. 

There was a silence.

“Oh?” said Jaskier.

“What I mean is, you could… sit here, later, when I’m not wearing armor.” Geralt wasn’t stuttering, because Witchers didn’t stutter, but he was tripping over his words a little bit. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

Jaskier didn’t say anything for a while, just leant his head back to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. Eventually, he said, “What _would_ you be wearing, then?”

Geralt was a little drunk, possibly. It took him a moment to remember what Jaskier was talking about.

“Whatever,” he said, and then swallowed, feeling clumsy and a bit out of his depth. “Whatever you wanted.”

Jaskier hummed contentedly and said, “We can talk about that later, love. Let’s just focus on the celebration for now?”

“Of course,” said Geralt. “I love celebrations.”

Jaskier laughed, possibly at him, but it wasn’t as insulting as Geralt thought it probably ought to be.

***

After some time, the ealdorman moved near to the fire, and, waving his walking stick around in a very official manner, began to speak. The crowd quieted, and all turned to face him.

“On this _Dziady_ ,” he said, loudly, “We meet with the spirits of our forebearers, and drink with them, feast with them, listen to their tales and songs!”

The crowd made a sound of drunken approval. A woman with her head nearly cloven from her neck in a great, bloodless wound raised her tankard high and roared.

“Julian, the bard of old, has graced us with his songs!”

Jaskier sat up at that, and Geralt frowned. Jaskier didn’t look very old, to him. Certainly Geralt was older.

“Julian!” called the ealdorman, “As the eldest remaining forebearer, though you in truth you had borne no kin, would you speak a moment?” 

Jaskier got up, delicately, from his place on Geralt’s lap. Geralt frowned even harder. It might have been the ale, but he was extremely confused. Forefathers were spirits, and Jaskier was…

 _Ah_. Jaskier was a spirit. Geralt resisted the urge to massage his temple, but only just. He would need to try very hard not to relay this story to Vesemir, because Vesemir would box his ears soundly, which would be fair, really, because Geralt was a fool.

However, Jaskier was very pretty, and Geralt thought this was a passable excuse for his lack of attention. Not that Witchers noticed such things, but he was certain he could spin it correctly, if given enough time.

Jaskier was, by that point, back by the bonfire.

“It was not long ago,” he said, “That Toderas was just a riverbank! A mudpit, if you will, full of drowners!”

The crowd booed. Jaskier seemed thoroughly undeterred.

“But you fine people have continued the proud tradition which my own forebearers started, when they built the twelve houses on the hill!” The jeering stopped, and the crowd went back to drinking their ales in contemplative silence. “And I’m glad to call this place my home, for however long I stay!”

At this, the crowd applauded, having seemingly sensed the end of the speech and thus the recommencement of feasting. Jaskier bowed deeply and hurried back to Geralt, on whose lap he sat once more.

“So,” said Geralt, unsure how to bring up the fact that he was only newly aware that Jaskier was a spirit, “That was… a good speech.”

“Ah, the ealdorman insists I do it every year, and I play up the character, but really it was my great-great-grandfather who built the village. But him and all the others have passed on, so I’m the oldest one now, and I get to give the speeches.”

“And then you died,” said Geralt, extremely casually, “Sometime after your great-great-grandfather built the town?” Geralt was pretty sure that he had the timeline right, but he just needed to confirm that Jaskier was, in fact, dead.

“Well,” said Jaskier, twisting around a little to look at him, slightly puzzled. “Yeah.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “That’s… sad.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Well, I had it coming.” He twisted entirely around, then, so that he was facing Geralt and straddling his thighs, his arms wrapped around the back of Geralt’s neck.

Geralt quite liked this new position, but it seemed unbecoming to mention it, so instead he said, “What happened?” with as much sympathy as he could muster, drunk as he was, which in truth was probably very little.

“Ah, I drowned,” said Jaskier. “Bedded the wrong Lord of Wherever, and then his da sent a few men after me, and then they drowned me in the river. It was all very dramatic. And it made for a good song, anyway, which is more than you can say about most deaths.”

“Oh,” said Geralt, thinking rather hazily about Jaskier bedding the Lord of Wherever. He decided he didn’t like it very much at all. Jaskier should be bedding… important people. 

Although... Geralt himself wasn’t terribly important, so that removed him from the group of people Jaskier ought to be bedding, which was also an unpleasant thought.

Geralt sighed.

“What is it, my love?” said Jaskier, leaning in a little closer.

Geralt attempted to arrange his thoughts into words as eruditely as possible, but what came out was, “If this Lord wasn’t satisfactory, which I assume he wasn’t, because his father sent men to kill you instead of give you a dowry, then _I,_ perhaps, could…” and here Geralt paused, thinking, “Finish the job?”

Jaskier frowned. “And kill me?” he said, confused.

“No!” cried Geralt. “ _Fuck_ you. If you wanted, I mean.”

Jaskier laughed. His laugh was very nice. Geralt basked in it for a few seconds.

“I would very much like that,” said Jaskier, “But, again, we _are_ at a feast.”

“Of course,” said Geralt, nodding sagely, but then a troubling thought occurred to him. “But won’t you… disappear, once the feast is over?”

“Oh, Melitele, no,” said Jaskier. He gave a smile which was much less overwhelming than the previous smiles had been, possibly because it looked a little sad. “The others will. The other spirits, I mean. They only put forth the effort to come back to the land of the living on _Dziady_ , because it’s custom, and because the village makes very good ale. The rest of the year, they are… elsewhere.”

“I understand,” said Geralt, but in truth he didn’t understand at all. “And you are here for longer?”

“I’m here always,” said Jaskier. The sad little smile made a reappearance. “I don’t entirely understand how the others move on, honestly. So, for the rest of the year I tend the shrine at the inn, and help Aneila with the customers, a little, but mostly I spend the evenings performing for the patrons, even though I’m not quite what I used to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Jaskier, and he bit his lip in contemplation, which was very distracting, so Geralt picked up his long-forgotten ale to take a large, steadying gulp. “Before I drowned, I was very well-trained as a bard, and I was exceptionally skilled at fingering.”

Geralt coughed as the ale went down wrong. “Were you,” he said, a little breathlessly.

Jaskier gave him a wide, earnest grin. “With the lute, yes!”

Geralt was not disappointed by this clarification at all.

“And in other endeavors as well,” said Jaskier, and his grin showed a few extra teeth. He gave an exaggerated, saucy wink, possibly for emphasis.

“That’s very nice,” said Geralt, who was mostly certain that Jaskier was talking about sex, now, but not completely.

“I had nothing but rave reviews, I assure you,” said Jaskier. “Anyway, my point is that I don’t have entirely enough motor control to play the lute with the same level of skill, and my throat is a little rough with singing, since I drowned.”

“Ah,” said Geralt. “That is a pity.”

Jaskier nodded mournfully.

The feast went on around them, bright and loud.

Geralt was about to voice another thought, Jaskier chose that moment to begin absently petting Geralt’s hair, so Geralt forgot about it very quickly. 

The night passed in a warm haze of Jaskier’s perfume (“Dandelion,” he said, “It grows all over, and you only have to soak the petals in vodka for a week to get a lovely scent.”) and, admittedly, extremely good ale. 

Eventually the sky began to go a little green at the eastern edge, and the feast wound down to a slow, sleepy end.

“I believe my forebearer obligations are over,” said Jaskier, his mouth right against Geralt’s jaw. 

“They are?” said Geralt. He was very drunk, though perhaps not as drunk as Jaskier, who was rosy and kept gesticulating in grand, sweeping gestures, which frequently overbalanced him and required Geralt to hold him in place, lest he fall. Geralt had little issue with this, in truth, and had for the last few hours kept a firm grasp on Jaskier’s hips, should the need for rescue arise suddenly.

“Yes!” said Jaskier, “Which means I am free to return to my room!”

Geralt nodded, though he was a little foggy about the whole… process, and the details. It sounded like Jaskier was preparing to leave, which was sad.

“You’re coming with me,” said Jaskier, in a conspiratorial whisper. Geralt brightened immediately, moved his hands to the underside of Jaskier’s thighs, and hefted him up.

Jaskier made a very loud sound, which was possibly inappropriate, when made in the midst of a crowd of drunk and tired villagers. 

Certainly inappropriate, in fact, because the ealdorman looked at them with a scandalized expression and stormed across the clearing.

“What is this!” he cried, pointing a dour finger at Geralt. Geralt turned to the side a little so that Jaskier could better see the obstacle in their path.

“I thought you knew him!” said Geralt. “This is Jaskier. He lives here.”

“Yes, you great oaf, I know that!” sputtered the ealdorman, whose face was extremely red. “I mean, why are you holding him! Embracing him, even!”

Geralt frowned and looked over at Jaskier to help with an explanation.

“He was carrying me to our room,” said Jaskier, very primly. “So that we can fuck.”

The ealdorman became, if it were possible, even more red. The villagers hastily cleared away, and many of them began to slowly edge back toward the hill, yawning into their hands.

“I told you,” the ealdorman cried, waving his walking stick explosively, “That you were to neither mingle, nor defile!”

Geralt did vaguely remember the ealdorman saying something to that effect, but before he could reply, Jaskier said “ _Defile_? Dear gods, man, Geralt would never do such a thing! We are simply retiring to our room for a few rounds of lovemaking, which I’m sure even you couldn’t begrudge anyone after a wonderful _Dziady_.” 

At this, the ealdorman lost a little of his steam.

“And besides,” said Geralt, finally remembering what he had intended to say, “I have. As you can see. Two swords, on my back.” Jaskier thumped one of them soundly for emphasis. “And if anyone has any,” Geralt frowned pensively, “ _Qualms,_ then I will, by Witcher Code, be forced to dismember them. Jaskier, will you show the swords?”

Jaskier clumsily pulled out the silver sword and held it aloft rather triumphantly, and with an extremely self-satisfied smirk.

The ealdorman shrank back. Jaskier tilted the sword, showily and drunkenly, toward him. Geralt observed this with devout interest.

“But,” stammered the ealdorman, “Defiling,” he coughed for a moment, “Our most esteemed forebearer…”

“Give it a break!” called one of the villagers, slurring a little, from within the crowd. There was a sound of thorough agreement from the rest of them, and their mass began trudging back up the hill, the matter, apparently, resolved.

Geralt followed them, peripherally aware that Jaskier was making rude one-handed gestures at the ealdorman as they passed him.

“Put the sword back, please,” said Geralt, and slowed so that Jaskier could do so.

***

The candles had gone out in Jaskier’s room by the time they arrived, but Geralt cast a very careful, focused _igni,_ and they burst alight once more.

“So talented,” said Jaskier, looking ready to start clapping. Geralt knelt a little so that Jaskier could dismount, as it were, which Jaskier did rather reluctantly. He brightened, however, when Geralt began fumbling with his buttons.

Between the two of them, their garments were cast off with drunken speed, and they tumbled clumsily into the small cot. Jaskier wriggled into an upright position astride Geralt’s naked thighs.

“So,” said Jaskier, reaching up to tap Geralt’s stomach, “What do you want?”

Geralt considered the question for a moment. “You mentioned something about your fingers,” he said, though he still was not totally certain that Jaskier had meant any of that to be sexual, and so he didn’t want to say it outright, in case he was wrong.

“My legendary fingers, you mean? I did say a lot about them, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” said Geralt, “I remember that pretty well.”

“Oil?” said Jaskier.

Geralt looked at him blankly, slightly too drunk to put together… anything, without considerable explanation beforehand.

“Or salve, or whatever it is you use?”

“Oh,” said Geralt, “Yes, in the saddlebag. It’s, the big blue tin.”

Jaskier looked slightly crestfallen. “The saddlebag… all the way over there?” He flapped his hand vaguely at the other side of the room, which was maybe two armspans across, if one was being generous.

“Yes?” said Geralt, though now that Jaskier had pointed it out, it did seem unreasonably far away. Geralt thought for a few moments. “We could, do that later? When it’s closer. Or easier. Or something.”

“Alright,” said Jaskier, tilting his chin in agreement. “That’s fine, because bards also have very talented mouths. And throats. All of that. And I, of course,” and here he made a dramatic, sweeping gesture, “Am a bard.”

Geralt squinted at him for a few seconds, before understanding. “You are!” he said.

“I am. So, can I interest you in a blowjob?”

“Very interested,” said Geralt, and he propped himself up on his elbows, so as to better convey this.

Jaskier gave an extremely contented smile and leaned over to kiss Geralt sweetly, before returning to his previous post at Geralt’s thighs, and then shifting a little further past that and bending, taking Geralt in hand.

Geralt was already hard and had been for a while, probably since Jaskier began threatening the ealdorman with a sword, which was really, incredibly hot. 

Jaskier spent a few moments kind of nuzzling and kissing at the crown of Geralt’s cock, before taking it in his mouth, and sucking softly.

“Ah,” said Geralt, and collapsed a little, flat on his back, before immediately propping himself up on his elbows once more to watch. Jaskier sucked again, much harder this time, and then slid down Geralt’s length with astonishing ease. He stopped with a little more than a fistful of Geralt left, which was certainly farther than most people got, and then he pulled up again, so as to coat his hand with a little spit, and used the hand to work what remained in a maddening rhythm that was very overwhelming.

Jaskier was blushing all the way down, and his lips were very, very red, and he made these soft little noises that got caught in his throat. Geralt watched with rapt attention, panting a little. Eventually, though, the combination of sensation and view pulled him very close to the edge, and he reached up to push at Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier pulled off with an obscene noise and wiped his mouth. “Was it not good?” he said, brows furrowed.

“It was,” said Geralt, and tried to cast about for the correct word, “Stunning.” 

Jaskier gave him a wide grin, and then bent back down.

“Wait!” said Geralt, “I meant, I wanted to get a hand on you, before I come.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier, and then spread his arms out, “Well, I’d certainly not deny you that.” He was hard against his stomach, and a little slick with precome.

Geralt reached out and tugged Jaskier closer, by the hips, and took both of them in hand.

Jaskier was very loud, and had leaned over a little so that he could run his hands down Geralt’s chest, for whatever reason. He came first, body going taut, his whole throat exposed. Geralt followed very quickly.

***

They lay there for a while, panting and a little sticky, curled into each other, before Jaskier said, “I’m going to miss you terribly, you know, when you leave.”

“Leave?” said Geralt. “What do you mean?”

“Leave… Toderas. It’s not like you can stay here forever, can you?” Jaskier said, though he sounded a little like maybe he did want Geralt to stay forever.

“I could,” said Geralt. “Or you could come with me?”

“Oh,” said Jaskier, very sadly, “I can’t. I’ve tried leaving, but I seem to be tied here. Two leagues away from the riverbank, and I get this awful feeling, like I’m going numb, and I have to turn around.”

Geralt hadn’t thought of that. “So you’ve just… been here? This whole time?”

“More than two hundred years, yes.”

That sounded desperately lonely. “But you’ve had visitors? Friends?”

“Oh, sure,” said Jaskier, “For a while. And then they move on. And things keep going. And I stay here.”

Geralt knew the feeling. He had made friends with a few humans, many years ago, when he first started the Path. And then they aged, and moved on, or died. And Geralt realized, eventually, that he was a fixed point, a rock in the harbor upon which humanity broke for a while, and then was gone. He had reserved most of his affection for other Witchers, after that, and even then, mostly just Eskel. But Jaskier didn’t have other Witchers, or even other spirits, really, just travelers and townsfolk, and his small room with the shrine.

“I will stay,” Geralt decided, “For as long as I can. And then, when I must go, I will return again to visit you.”

Jaskier smiled, though he didn’t look like he believed it. “And how long can you stay, dear heart?”

Geralt attempted a few mental calculations before giving up and opting for the largest sure measurement. “The winter,” he said. “I can stay the winter, at the least.”

Jaskier leaned over and kissed him, deep and slow.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, they did forget Jaskier's lute by the riverbank. The drowners probably won't steal it, it's fine.
> 
> About the characterization: Look, I know Geralt isn’t actually this clueless, but in my head, i occasionally like to pretend he is very dumb, and he only lives so long because he’s also very, very strong. The ideal man, really.
> 
> And Jaskier is not actually a very earnest spirit from a small town who is full of local gossip and who sleeps in a room that’s actually a shrine, but… well, if he was. That would be cool. I just think it would be cool and interesting, is all.
> 
> As for the rest of it, Dziady is the older version of the festival of All Saints Day. However, as you may have guessed, it does not typically involve spirits being totally corporeal and traipsing around for days, fucking Witchers. So, I’ve taken a few liberties. And Toderas is a tiny abandoned village in Temeria (in the Witcher 3). In this fic, it’s not abandoned, obviously.
> 
> The bit about the dandelion perfume is accurate, by the way! I have some that I made, myself. Adds like +10 Gay to my stats whenever I wear it out.
> 
> The song is Fairport Convention’s She Moves Through The Fair, though with the gender changed to make it gay (which is how I play it, anyway. No sense in singing straight folk songs).
> 
> Also, I feel the need to say, this is my first real attempt at writing any kind of sex, and I had to get extremely drunk to gather the nerve to do so. My apologies if it’s, uh. Awkward. I usually fade to black, but I felt like this fic really deserved a little fucking, so I gave it my best!
> 
> And, to preclude any protestations of “Dude, there’s no way they managed to get it up at that fantastic level of drunk,” I would like to say that canonically Witchers can always get it up no matter the circumstances (and Geralt is especially skilled in this art), and Jaskier is a ghost, and thus not constrained by the laws of the flesh. Thank you for your time.


End file.
